Peacock Feathers or of Cats and Boats
by alanwolfmoon
Summary: Historical AU set in the 1910's or 20's, inspired by a combination of Sherlock Holmes and Jeeves and Wooster.
1. Chapter 1

James had always despised being the second son of a family that no longer had a first son. But never more than now.

It had all started with that cat. It had been curled on the stoop, drenched with rain, and mewing its little head off. James had been trying to go to sleep, but he couldn't block out that blasted mewing! So he had gotten up and tromped out to the front of his small apartment.

It had been his father's idea, that he travel, see the world, before he came into his inheritance. So he had been in a good many places around the world, eventually ending with this apartment in America, at the age of twenty-one.

He walked out, and, seeing the pitiful creature's wide blue eyes, was unable to resist reaching down to pick it up, intending to carry it inside. It scampered away, across the lane. James chased after it, worried it would get hit by a cab.

He caught it up in his arms, and was just turning to walk back to his home, when he himself got knocked senseless by the edge of a four-wheeler. He saved the cat, though. And that was good.

But he ended up with some broken ribs and developed quite a serious illness—there was over a week of time he did not remember thanks to the fever. His breathing was short and painful, and it left him bedridden for quite some time. He sent a line to his father, and got an answer back that he should come home.

He was quite weak, and, with only the cat to keep him company, he was unable to travel. He put an advertisement in the paper, for a man willing to help an infirm master on a journey to England for good pay and a paid passage over. He got a response in the form of two men, one fairly senior, the other only slightly older than James himself.

"You advertised for a man?" asked the older of the two. He seemed… quite firm. A military man, perhaps.

"Yes," said James, coughing slightly, "I did. Please, come in."

He stepped back, wobbling, and the two followed him inside. He braced himself with a hand against a doorway, "I'm James Williams."

The older man elbowed the younger, who growled in discomfort, "I'm Gregory. My Father here says England would straighten me out, like it did him."

James nodded, and quickly offered two seats, in the hopes that they would take them, and he would not be impolite to sit. The younger man went to sit, but the older gripped his shoulder, and James could tell it was hard enough to bruise.

Gregory sighed, and moved back to stand straight. Something in his otherwise unreadable eyes seemed to react to James's discomfort, and he stepped forward, taking James's arm. The older man growled something under his breath, but James was extremely grateful for the help, and leaned into the stronger man's grip.

"I… thank you," said James, and found his vision fading in and out. "I think I had better start now," said Gregory, amused. James smiled, faintly, "if you wouldn't mind…" Gregory actually smiled, at that. "Gregory," said the older man, "mind your place." Gregory sighed, and started to let go. James shook his head, speaking faintly, "no, please. I…"

James groaned, opening his eyes. He was being carried. Then set on what he recognized as his bed. "My father left," said Gregory, as James looked around somewhat nervously for the bulkier man, "he figured I couldn't screw up too badly with an unconscious person." James laughed, quietly. Gregory looked nervous.

"Look," said James, quickly, "please don't get uncomfortable. As much as I need someone to help me through the trip with my…" he gestured at himself, "obvious infirmity, I'm looking for a companion, not a servant."

Gregory grinned, "well that's good," he said, with half a laugh, "because I'm bad at being a servant. According to my Dad, that's my worst quality. Aside from being an ass, and not agreeing with his every word, and showing up two minutes late for mealtimes, and quite a variety of other traits and shortcomings…"

James smiled. "I think we'll get along quite well," he said, coughing slightly, and pushing himself up against the cushions, "you're hired." Gregory nodded. "Well," he said, looking James over, "when's the last time you've eaten?"

"Erm," said James, sheepishly, "breakfast." Gregory looked at his pocketwatch, "it's almost three. No wonder you fainted." James flushed, "I'm not… usually a big eater…"

"Well, you're sick, so you'd better start being one." James laughed. Then he coughed. He kept coughing, one arm around his chest, the other covering his mouth with a handkerchief.

The spasms eventually ended, but they left him exhausted and weaker than he had been before, each breath coming with a pained effort, as he shivered slightly in the cold apartment. Lighting a fire made him cough almost constantly, from the smoke.

The quilt he had folded up at the end of his bed unfolded itself, and wrapped around his shoulders. He pulled it close, as he continued to sit and breathe. "Thank you," he murmured.

"Kind of my job, isn't it?" James smiled, weakly, "thank you." Gregory shrugged, "you'd do a lot better if you didn't keep this place as cold as an iceblock."

"The smoke… even if just a little escapes the chimney, I can't stop coughing."

"Ah," said Gregory, and ruffled through the drawers next to the bed, eventually pulling out a thick, warm sweater. He handed it to James. James smiled, letting the quilt fall as he struggled to get the thing over his head. He managed, with a few helpful tugs from Gregory.

He looked at the older man, "Gregory, was it? I'm sorry, I forgot your surname…"

"No, actually, I just forgot to tell it to you. Hawkins. The man before was my father, John, who is in the firm belief that I am the worst thing that could possibly have come out of my mother's womb, and is probably quite glad to be rid of me. The feeling is mutual, I'm afraid. I'm twenty-seven, and I've been a doctor's assistant for quite some time, but unfortunately, he slipped off a bridge, and I lost my employment. Which is what brought me here, in response to your advertisement, and at my father's instance."

James nodded, "You obviously already know my name, but I'll give you my history. My father is a member of the upper class, in England. I was quite free to do what I wanted with my life, until my older brother's disappearance, at which time I was charged with carrying on the family's legacy. My father did, however, tell me I should travel, before it was time for me to come into my inheritance. Which is how I ended up here, in America."

James paused, and looked around the room. He gestured towards the closet, out of which a tail was protruding. "There was a cat on my doorstep. It ran across the road, and I followed it, worried the poor thing would get hit by a cab, or trampled. I saved the cat, but got hit myself. I took ill after that, and have been confined to my apartment and mostly my bedroom for the past month. My father told me I should come back to England, so I advertised in the paper for someone to help me on the journey. Which brings us up to present."

Hawkins nodded, "well," he said, walking over to the closet and scooping up the creature in his arms, "at least you saved the cat."

James smiled, laughing. The cat mewed, and Hawkins gently handed it to James, who smiled more broadly, and started petting it.

No, decided Hawkins, this was not going to be a difficult job. And it wouldn't matter if he was decent to James, since the younger man was in all likelihood never going to see him again for the rest of their lives—and being decent was kind of part of the job, he supposed. It wouldn't be the same as what had happened before.

Within a week's time, they were packed and ready, and on their way down to the docks. Hawkins had loaded everything they were taking with them into a cab, and sent it on ahead. Then he had gone back inside, and wrapped a thick coat around James's shoulders, as the younger man held the cat that had started the whole mess in his arms.

Hawkins had his arm around James's shoulders, as the younger man stood. James was unsteady on his feet, and wobbled a good bit going down the steps. Hawkins held on to his charge, until James was safely in the second cab.

By the time they got to the docks, James was asleep against Hawkins's shoulder, the cat purring on the younger man's lap. Hawkins shook James's shoulder. He stirred, and straightened, looking out the window of the cab. The driver came around, and opened the door.

James picked the cat up, and handed it—her—to Hawkins. Hawkins waited until the driver had helped James wobble his way out of the cab, then handed the cat down to the younger man, and got out himself. James paid the cabdriver, and they headed towards their boat.

It was a steamer, with three massive decks. James stared up at it, his eyes wide, "I've only been across once," he whispered, "and it was a long time ago." Hawkins shrugged, gripping James's shoulder, as the younger man started coughing.

"Come on," he said, as James regained control. The cat mewed, in James's arms. Hawkins looked around, then led James to a bench by the edge of the docks. "Stay here. I'll get everything unloaded. Don't need you standing for that." James smiled, weakly, and nodded, petting the cat. She mewed at him, and nuzzled against his chest. He smiled.

Hawkins came back, and walked with James to the boarding ramp. It was a long, wide wooden ramp, with rails on either side and horizontal boards every foot or so for traction. Or tripping ill young men, thought Hawkins.

A cabin boy came over, and offered to carry the cat. James handed her over, somewhat reluctantly, and Hawkins gripped his arm firmly, as they made their way up the ramp. James seemed to have a lot of trouble getting his legs into the right place, and to hold, even when they were positioned correctly.

James had a coughing fit halfway up, and sank to his knees. Hawkins sat in front of him, and gripped his wrists to keep him from falling backwards, as he coughed. Eventually he stopped, and Hawkins pulled him to his feet.

He stumbled, a lot, on the second half, and by the time they got on the ship, he was wheezing and out of breath. Hawkins had him sit against the wall of the deck, and took the cat back from the cabin boy. James smiled weakly, as Hawkins handed him the cat.

Other people boarded past them, as James sat, face pale and sheening with sweat, breath coming unsteadily and painfully. James leaned his head against Hawkins's shoulder, as the older man rubbed his arm, awkwardly.

"Thank you," he rasped, and his large brown eyes told Hawkins he really meant it. "It's what you hired me for," said Hawkins, rolling his eyes. "Thank you," said James, again, before breaking out into another fit of coughing.

Hawkins sighed, and rubbed the younger man's back as James coughed. The cat jumped out of his lap, and curled up between the two, purring. James eventually regained control over his breath, and Hawkins helped him up, scooping the cat into his arms. It climbed up, and sat on his shoulder, claws digging into his shirt, vest and coat, but not into flesh.

Hawkins watched James warily, as they made their way towards the cabin, which was in the second deck. James curled on one of two bunks in the small room, breathing laboriously, hand on his chest. Hawkins gently detached the cat from his shoulder, and put her on the bed next to James. She curled against his stomach, and lay down, purring as he petted her.

Hawkins sat down in one of the two chairs, pulling it around to watch James, as the younger man drifted

off to sleep, his hand still draped over the cat, who continued to purr until she herself fell asleep as well.

Hawkins sighed, and divested James of his shoes, socks, and tie. He unbuttoned the younger man's cuffs, and the top few buttons of his shirt. James coughed slightly, in his sleep. Hawkins pulled the blanket over the younger man, making sure he didn't cover the cat.

James unconsciously pulled the blanket tighter around himself as he slept. Hawkins couldn't help a small smile. Being away from John was an incredible relief, being able to do something like what he had done under Dr. Turner was refreshing, and the man himself was quite pleasant.

James woke quite a while later. He crawled over to the porthole by his bed, and peered out. Then he turned to Hawkins, who was reading a leather-bound volume, "have we already set sail?"

Hawkins nodded, "about two hours ago." James yawned, and looked around, "where'd the cat go?"

"Under your bed." James leaned over the side, and smiled when he saw the cat. Then he wobbled a bit, as the ship swayed, tumbling head first off the bed. Hawkins watched him with a raised eyebrow, as James climbed back onto the bed.

"So…" he said, yawning, "you've got a younger brother… is your mother still alive?"

"I… how did you know I've got a younger brother?"

"Well, unless you were talking in your sleep to a younger sister named Mathew…" James blushed, "oh. Yes, my mum's still alive. Is yours?"

"No. She died a while ago." James nodded, "I'm sorry." Hawkins shook his head, "like I said, it was a long time ago." James shrugged. A knock sounded on the door and Hawkins got up to answer it.

It was someone informing them that lunch was being served on the top deck. James stood, stumbling with the motion of the ship. Hawkins grabbed his arm, as he threatened to fall, "Jesus. You really are unsteady."

James blushed, slightly. Hawkins shrugged, and lifted James's arm over his own shoulders. He didn't usually like touching strangers—or non strangers, for that matter. But helping James was both his job, and not that awkward.

James held on to him, as they made their way up the steps. Two old ladies passed them, and James flushed, looking at Hawkins apologetically. Hawkins shook his head, "let's just get you up there, okay?" James nodded, weakly.

They were almost to the dining room, when James had a coughing fit, as a cloud of miasma—Hawkins couldn't tell if it was smoke or steam—from the great stacks blew their way.

He sank to his knees, holding himself around the chest as he coughed and coughed. Hawkins knelt, and put an arm around the younger man's shoulders, giving him support as the ship rocked to and fro.

Several people passed, asking if James needed help. Hawkins shook his head each time, and watched James's face, as the younger man continued to cough. Eventually, long after the cloud had blown in another direction, James managed to stop coughing.

He leaned against Hawkins's shoulder, struggling to catch his breath, "this was a bad idea," he rasped, "I should have rested longer."

"Yes," said Hawkins, "you probably should have. Too late now, though. Come on, you've got a doctor's assistant to help you. That should cheer you up at least a little." James smiled, weakly, as Hawkins stood, and heaved the younger man to his feet, walking close together as they made their way the short distance to the enclosed dining room.

There were quite a few people already there, probably all the passengers of the second deck. James gripped Hawkins's arm, looking slightly green.

Hawkins took the younger man by the shoulders, and led him out, just in time to allow him to lean over the rail and vomit. James eventually finished, but his weakened body had had enough, as he slumped down to the deck, with only Hawkins's quick catch to keep him from cracking his head on the boards.

Several people on the way to the dining room crowded around, as Hawkins tried to rouse his charge. "James,"he said, shaking the younger man's shoulders, "come on."

James groaned, but did not wake. Hawkins sighed, and looked up, reassuring the crowd that had gathered that James was simply exhausted and had been weak of health well before boarding. Someone helped Hawkins lift James onto his back, and carry him down to the second level.

Hawkins loosened James's buttons and removed his shoes, then went to get food for both of them from the dining room.

The man—boy, really, as he couldn't be more than seventeen—who had helped Hawkins carry James, was waiting outside. Hawkins went to tip him, but the young man shook his head, "I just wanted to see that he was alright." Hawkins nodded, awkwardly. The fellow was quite clearly an Australian.

"He is. Thank you for your help." The young man smiled, holding out his hand, "I'm Robert. My Dad and me are moving to England."

Hawkins sighed. As it seemed like James was going to spend a good portion of this trip either sleeping or unconscious, Hawkins figured it couldn't hurt to have someone else to talk to. "Hawkins," said, "and it's my dad and I."

The Australian smiled, "sorry." They walked up to the dining room, and at in relative silence. Hawkins got a plate of food together for James, said goodbye to Robert, after confirming where the boy's cabin was, and walked back down to the second deck.

James was awake when he entered, but pale, and leaning against the wall of the cabin, knees drawn up nearly to his chest. Hawkins set the food down on the table, and sat on the end of James's bed.

"I'm sorry," murmured James, "I collapsed, didn't I?" Hawkins nodded, "yeah. It's okay, though." James rested his head forward, on his knees. "Here," said Hawkins, taking the plate off the table, "eat, before you pass out again."

"I'm not really… hungry…" mumbled James.

"Seasick, still?" James nodded, miserably. "Well, that won't improve by being down here."

"I know," said James, quietly, "but…" He leaned his head against the wall of the cabin, tiredly, "I'm exhausted." Hawkins laughed, quietly, "come on," he said, "you won't get better by not eating, and you won't eat by staying down here." James sighed, and dragged himself off the bunk.

Hawkins gripped his arm, and helped him walk to the upper deck. They leaned against the wall enclosing the dining room, and James coughed slightly. Hawkins watched him, curiously. "You don't want to go back," he said, making James look at him with a startled expression, "you'd rather be sick alone in America, than at home with your family."

James flushed, "I… don't… It's not as if they mean it. But my older brother was always this perfect gentleman, everything my parents wanted. And then he disappeared, and…" He shrugged, tiredly, "I'm not my brother. They know I'm not my brother. But on some level… I think they wish I could be. Why am I telling you this?"

Hawkins was silent for a while, then spoke, "at least you didn't have to grow up with those expectations. Maybe that's why your brother left, in the first place." James looked at him, "you really don't get along with your father, do you?" Hawkins shook his head, "not in the least."

James sighed, then started coughing. He ended up kneeling on the deck, Hawkins's arm around his shoulders, holding him up. "Come on," said Hawkins, standing and walking towards the stairs, "you still nauseous?" James shook his head, out of breath. Hawkins went bellow decks, and came back up with the plate. James ate, as Hawkins sat next to him, gazing out over the open ocean.

There were clouds in the distance, but other than that… there was nothing visible on any horizon. James watched Hawkins, as they sat. "There's a storm coming," murmured Hawkins, after a while of silence.

James nodded. He liked being around Hawkins. The older man reminded him of his brother… but he was different, too. David had always cared so much for what the world wanted of him. Had always strived to reach that goal. Hawkins… seemed content to be who he was, and if someone didn't like that, too bad for them.

There was something fascinating about that. Something that made James both wish to be like him, and fear slightly for the man's sanity.

The storm was coming closer… or, James supposed, they were catching up to it. He looked at Hawkins, whose blue-grey eyes reflected the sun bouncing off the water. James had been going to suggest going bellow decks, but…Something in the way Hawkins's eyes fixed on the oncoming storm made him want to see Hawkins in the storm.

Hawkins looked at him, then up at the glass windows of the dining room, as the sea started to roughen, then looked at James, appraisingly, "it'd probably be better for your health to stay below. But you're going to get awfully sea-sick if you do. The dining room might be a good compromise."

James nodded, and Hawkins stood, giving him a hand up. The door was locked, but Hawkins gripped the handle, and jimmied it open. James raised his eyebrows, and Hawkins shrugged. "not exactly meant to keep people out by force. More by suggestion." James smiled, a little, and followed Hawkins in, closing the door behind themselves.

The dining room was all set out for the next meal, tables covered in fresh cloths, napkins, silverware. James stood by the window. He watched the storm growing closer and closer, and the first few fat drops of rain hit the glass sheets. They grew heavier, and the wind started to pick up.

The ship was rocking. James gripped Hawkins's arm, unsteady on the tilting floor. Hawkins stood, perfectly firm and balanced, and kept James from falling.

The wind was whistling into the dining room, now, and they could hardly see out the windows for the sheets of water pouring down them. Hawkins looked at the younger man, as James's hand gripped tighter and tighter on Hawkins's arm. "Hey," he said, "are you alright?"

James twitched slightly, but did not answer. "Hey!" James jumped, and looked at him. He seemed disoriented, and dizzy, "what… um…"

He stumbled, letting go of Hawkins's arm, and Hawkins caught him by the shoulders. He shook his head, as though trying to clear it. "I need to sit down," he said.

Hawkins gripped the younger man's arm, as James slid down the wall of the dining room, then knelt, fingers finding James's carotid artery, checking his pulse. It was fast and erratic.

"Hey! Hey, look here. Look at me. Calm down." James looked at him, brown eyes wide. Hawkins gripped James's shoulders, "what's wrong?"

James swallowed, "my… uh… my brother… he used to have a little sailboat. He took me out on it when I was little. We got… caught in a storm, and wrecked… on a bit of rock near the shore…" He stopped, and his entire body was shivering, violently.

"Hey," said Hawkins, brushing his fingers along James's cheek, feeling awkward, "hey, it's okay. It's okay." James gripped Hawkins's hand, keeping it pressed against his cheek.

"Come on," said Hawkins, gently pulling his hand out, and pulling James to his feet. They walked to the door, and Hawkins opened it. They slipped and slid towards the stairs, and James nearly fell going down them. He had a coughing fit at the foot of the stairs, and spent a while leaning against the wall, trying to catch his breath.

Hawkins opened the door to their room, and James sat on the bed by the porthole, still trembling slightly, but not nearly as much as before. "How did you get to America in the first place?" asked Hawkins, closing the door, "you can't have not met one patch of foul seas the entire time?" James flushed slightly, embarrassed by his insane reaction to just a simple storm, "I uh… had a… friend… with me. I spent most of the time… in the cabin."

Hawkins nodded, then looked James over, "you really do have horrible luck with your health." James shrugged, coughing slightly, and rubbed the back of his neck, "yeah." Hawkins sat on the bed next to James, sighing.

They alternated between the room and the deck, as James's nervousness and seasickness took turns bothering him the most.

Eventually, James lay down on the cot, drenched and trembling and nauseous. He curled on his side, and watched, trying to think of anything but shipwreck and storms, as Hawkins changed out of the soaked clothes.

He hung his vest on a chair, and yanked his tie off with a hateful look at it, then unbuttoned his shirt.

His back was towards James, and as he hung his shirt on a hanger, James could see scars criss-crossing the well toned muscles and skin. He didn't say anything, though. Hawkins suddenly stopped, and turned around, realizing that James could see them. James didn't comment.

Hawkins sighed, and walked over to sit on the bed next to James. James coughed. "Come on," said Hawkins, quietly, "let's get you out of those before they give you a cold on top of everything else." James smiled, weakly, and started working at his vest buttons with numb fingers.

Hawkins rolled his eyes, and did it for him. The tie came off next, and the shirt. Hawkins left the pants alone, and handed James a nightshirt. James had his arm across his chest, though, and had started coughing. Hawkins gripped his arm, pulling him upright.

James gripped Hawkins's wrist with the other arm, face slightly ashen. Hawkins sat down, and put his arm around James's shoulders, as the younger man started to slump, breath coming in short, erratic wheezes. "Come on," said Hawkins, shaking him gently, "take a big breath."

"Hurts," gasped James, breathlessly. "I know. But you need to breathe. Take a deep breath." James struggled to do so, and clenched his arm tightly around his chest.

"Good. Now take another one." James breathed in. Then, as he was breathing out, started coughing again. Hawkins sighed, and simply waited, until James's breathing finally steadied. He tried to wait until it calmed and slowed, but he was tired, and he fell asleep before that.

James opened his eyes. His head was resting on a bare chest. There was an arm around his shoulders. And a cat sleeping against his hip. He raised his head. Hawkins.

He had been coughing, and Hawkins had been holding him up. He had fallen asleep, and apparently, Hawkins had too. He smiled a little, gently shaking the older man's shoulder. Hawkins sat up, yawning, and looked sleepily, but with good humor, at James.

"Sorry," he said, getting up, "any idea what time it is?" James looked at his watch, "six… probably at night." Hawkins nodded, sitting down on his own bed.

James scratched the cat's head, smiling as she started to purr. "She needs a name…" he said, musing, "what do you think?" Hawkins shrugged, "I never had a pet. Don't ask me."

"Well… how about Sherlock?" Hawkins shrugged, "she is curious." James smiled, and scratched under Sherlock's chin. ?


	2. Chapter 2

In calmer weather, they stood on the deck of the ship, leaning on the rail and watching the waves below. James still got a little seasick and upset, but as long as the water was calm, he was alright.

Hawkins would get bored, sometimes, and sit with his back to the railing, watching the other passengers go by, and making up absurd stories about them based on their appearance.

For instance, the woman with the velvet jacket was a typist, based on the lines pressed into the velvet on her sleeve. Or the man with the red smudge on his white suit that came up to meet a woman wearing a ring similar to his was having an affair with someone below decks; the smudge was lipstick.

The Australian was a source of great amusement to Hawkins, for, the young man seemed entirely transparent to him. He merely opened his mouth and Hawkins could state what he was about to say, based on the language of how he held himself. Not word-for-word, of course, but if it were negative, positive, embarrassing, prideful… it was amusing for both James and Hawkins, and the young man himself seemed not entirely irritated by it.

By the time they docked in Brighton, Hawkins had agreed to stay on for a while, since James was still quite weak of health, and not exactly the least lonely of men.

They said goodbye to the Australian and his father, and Hawkins flagged a cab, while James sat on a bench, Sherlock standing in his lap and sniffing the air, living up to her name by positively writhing with curiosity.

Hawkins came back after securing a cab, and carried Sherlock as they made their way into the vehicle. They rode to the train station, and James paid the cabbie. He seemed unusually ill today, dizzied by the crowds and signs and whistles.

Hawkins kept his arm around James's shoulders, as the younger man stumbled through the crowds, Sherlock perched on his shoulder like a demented parrot. Hawkins stopped by a shop, and got a basket they could hide Sherlock in on the train ride to London, if they shared the compartment with anyone who minded.

James sat in one of the padded red fabric seats, head in his hands. Hawkins sat next to him, and James leaned against his side, shaking slightly. "James? What is it?" asked Hawkins, as Sherlock poked her head out of the basket, looking inquisitively around the compartment. James took a shaky breath, coughed a little, and let it out.

"I feel horrible today… and I've got to face my father, like this."

"You're coming home because you're ill," said Hawkins, humor in his voice, "that's the point." James smiled, faintly. "I supposed you're right. I just… he's got such hopes for me, and I can barely walk two feet on my own."

"What does walking have to do with whatever he wants you to do?"

"I… he wants me to take over the politics of the family, as well as the business his uncle left him."

"Politics of the family? So all he wants you to do is to make people favor you?"

"Well, that's half of it. The other half is being a gentleman, being this respectable, hoity-toity, uptight, well-dressed, servant-having, … person."

"And the business?"

"Financing young businessmen's ventures and getting returns when their projects work out, but not if they don't. The main part of that is being sensible."

"So you've only got a problem with one part of one of them?"

"I don't know how to charm people… I've never even tried!" Hawkins laughed, "are you being serious?" James looked at him, "of course I am… what, did you think I was lying, or something?"

"You could charm the hooves off a horse if you so much as smiled at it and asked it to remove them." James looked at him, managing a weak smile, as he raised his head out of his hands, leaning back against the seat behind him.

"James," said Hawkins, frowning, "I've wondered… do you have trouble walking because you're too weak all over, or just in your legs?" James sighed, "it seems to be mostly my legs… and I'm dizzy quite a lot. The doctor said I might have had brain fever, but it's hard to tell, because I was delirious anyway."

Hawkins nodded, "I thought as much." James sighed, looking at the older man, "thank you for staying on…" Hawkins shook his head, "well, it's not as if I have much better to do here, given I've got no ties in England."

James smiled, and reached down, pulling Sherlock out from under the seat where she had wedged herself. She mewed at him, and he frowned a bit, "I forgot to feed her this morning…"

Hawkins stood, and pulled a tin out of his pack in the rack over their seats, "I got us some crackers, in case you decided to faint on the way." James smiled, as Hawkins crumbled a cracker into bits smaller than the grey cat's mouth, and set them in a pile in front of her, as James set her on the floor. She ate them up, then looked at Hawkins with her large blue eyes wide as they would go, and they both laughed. Hawkins gave her another crumbled cracker, and James ate some of the rest.

They changed trains in London, and were headed out to the village James's family's house was near. James tired, before they reached their station. He slept on the seat, and Hawkins sat across from him, reading. When they finally pulled up, Hawkins woke the younger man, and walked James to the steps.

A friendly woman took James's arm, helping him stand while he waited as Hawkins handed the luggage down to the conductor, who placed it on the platform. Hawkins came back up, nodded to the woman, and helped James down the steps.

He seemed out of breath by the time they reached the bottom, and though he hadn't had a coughing fit for some days, Hawkins could tell the younger man was having trouble getting air, in the small, stuffy train station.

Hawkins asked a lad waiting around for just such a job to take the luggage, and, handing James Sherlock in her basket, helped the younger man out of the station. He tipped the boy, and called for a cab, the driver of which James told the address to.

James leaned forward, breathing shakily. Hawkins let Sherlock out, and she laid on James's leg, which made the younger man smile a bit.

By the time they pulled up in front of the large house, James had worked himself up so much Hawkins thought he was about to have a fit. "Come on," said Hawkins, opening the door of the cab and getting out, "let's get you lying down." James nodded, shakily, and practically tumbled out of the cab. Hawkins caught him, and the driver carried the luggage up the steps, for which Hawkins tipped the man, as James made his slow, shaky way up, his hand tightly gripping Hawkins's arm for support.

The large doors at the top opened, and a fairly heavy, though not overly fat, woman came out, saw James, and rushed down the steps to wrap her arms around him, "James! Oh, lord, you're home safe…" She stroked his cheek, just watching his pale face, for a long moment. Then she looked at Hawkins.

"You're the man he hired?" Hawkins nodded, stiffly. She smiled, "thank you so much." He nodded again. "Would you mind staying on a while longer? James so needs a manservant, and I know he's been getting on quite well with you…" Hawkins looked at James for input, but ended up quickly gripping the younger man's arm, as James quite literally swooned.

Hawkins ended up lowering James to the steps, before he simply fell. The woman who Hawkins was assuming was James's mother placed her hand over James's pale brow, "he doesn't have a fever…"

Hawkins shook his head, "he's just quite weak… this happens often, though it hasn't for a few days. He's been worse today than he has for a while." The woman nodded, and brushed James's hair back, as he struggled against passing out. Eventually he recovered some, but it was clear to Hawkins that he needed to lie down.

Hawkins helped him up the steps, and the woman told a man to take them to James's old room. The room turned up to be up another flight of stairs—an exertion that would have caused James to collapse—and Hawkins ended up carrying the younger man up them, to James's protest and embarrassment. It was good he had. As soon as he set james back on his feet, the younger man swayed, and nearly fainted on the spot.

It was quite the sort of room Hawkins had imagined—richly furnished, painted a nice cream—and as he helped James sit without falling, the younger man gripped his hand, eyes pleading with him. Hawkins raised his eyebrows, and tilted his head.

"Please stay on… my mother… she means well, but she'll appoint me a nurse or something, and the last thing I want is to be doted on… and any manservant she hires will just stand there and do silently as their told. I have few enough real companions as it is, I don't want to lose your company," said James, practically begging.

Hawkins sat on the edge of James's four-poster, with a sigh. "I don't think that would be the best idea in the world. I'm not good at being inoffensive." James smiled, "well you haven't been offensive so far."

"That's because I like you, and I haven't been around anyone I don't like, and I haven't been bored enough to mess with anyone. But empty headed dimwits irritate me immensely."

James laughed, "don't worry. I mean… basically all you'd have to do more than your job so far is not say anything to the empty headed dimwits, and hang around making my mother believe I'm being a proper uptight gentlemanly type while actually allowing me to do as I will, proper or not."

Hawkins shrugged, "just not saying anything would be a lot easier than being polite…" James smiled, "so you'll stay?" Hawkins hesitated, then nodded, "yeah, I'll stay. But don't expect me to know what a manservant really does…"

James shook his head, as Hawkins pulled the sheets free of the foot of the bed, "basically, it's like taking care of a sick person… except they're rich, instead of sick." Hawkins snorted, "some would say being rich is being sick." James laughed, "thanks," he said, dryly.

Hawkins smirked, and walked across the room to sit at the desk, "it alters the behavior, narrows the horizon of what a person can do, causes paranoia, irritability, personality changes, and is rampant in a portion of the population, but absent in others… it fits the very definition of a disease."

James propped himself up against the cushions, speaking as though he wasn't quite sure if he should be amused or offended, "well, I'm glad to know you think that."

Hawkins rolled his eyes, "you're living on an allowance and you hired me specifically to help you without waiting on you. I was mostly talking about the people my father's perpetually rubbing elbows with, hoping some of the riches'll rub off on him."

James smiled a bit, "well, if he's lucky, it'll turn out to be a transmissible disease." Hawkins chuckled, and pulled his leather-bound book out of his bag. "What're you reading?" asked James, curiously.

Hawkins shrugged, and got up, walking back over to sit on the bed next to James, showing him the pages of Joseph Bell's surgical text, "the doctor I worked with gave it to me. He said I reminded him of stories he'd heard of the guy who wrote it."

James smiled, "must've been an interesting man." Hawkins snorted. James tried to read along with him, but he didn't really understand what the text was talking about, and he was exhausted.

He fell asleep against Hawkins's arm.

Hawkins gently eased away, and pulled the blankets up over the younger man. Then he got up and, after checking out the two doors off the bedroom—a smaller bedroom, and a bathroom, quietly exited into the rest of the house.

He was trying to remember the way back to the front doors, when a man about James's height, but a few years younger, walked out from around the corner, "hey, you there…" he said, frowning, "who are you?" Hawkins turned, looking at him, "Gregory Hawkins. I was just looking for James's mother… he's asleep, and…"

The man's expression lightened, "so you're Hawkins. Tall, aren't you? I'm Mathew." Hawkins sighed, "ah. His brother." Mathew nodded, smiling good-naturedly, "sorry for the strong tone… we don't often have visitors to the country house, so I wasn't quite sure you were supposed to be here."

Hawkins stifled a comment about there being only one person likely, if they didn't have many guests, and nodded. Mathew shifted a bit, "is… is he alright?"

Hawkins focused back on him, having been looking for a way to escape the conversation. "He… James?" Mathew nodded. Hawkins sighed, "he's had some damage from the sickness. He can't really walk well, and he's weak, and has respiratory—breathing—problems. But the weakness should fade with time, and he's coughing less."

Mathew tilted his head, "are you sure you're just a servant? You sound awfully like a doctor." Hawkins smirked a bit, somewhat proud of the accusation, "well, I was a doctor's assistant for over a decade, until the man I was working for slipped off a bridge. I couldn't find any other medical work for someone with no official qualifications, and saw your brother's ad in the paper."

Mathew nodded, "and since he was ill, you thought it would be at least sort of what you were looking for?" Hawkins nodded, "that was the logic of it." Mathew smiled, "well that's good. James would never abide someone looking after him just 'cause of who his family is."

"I kind of figured that."

"Well, I'm sure my mother asked you to stay on?" Hawkins nodded. "Are you going to?"

"I told James I would."

"That's good. He's been quite down, since David disappeared." Hawkins nodded, filing that information away for future reference. Mathew smiled, "well, you said he was sleeping, now?" Hawkins nodded, again. "Let's find my mother, then. She'll be glad to know you're staying on."

Mathew led Hawkins through a series of halls, and finally into a well furnished, mahogany-walled room, where James's mother and a fairly lanky man who was the right age to be James's father were sitting.

"Mum, Dad, this is Hawkins." James's mother stood, "oh, is James better, now?"

"He's sleeping." She nodded, gesturing to the man, "this is Harold, my husband—James's stepfather." Hawkins nodded to the man, awkwardly. He nodded back. "Is he alright? He seemed so ill…"

"It's not usually that bad. He was faint all day today. I think it's the stress of the trip catching up with him." She nodded, "well, I'm glad to hear that he isn't that ill all the time." Hawkins nodded. Harold stood, "Diane said she asked you to stay on with James. Have you made a decision?" Hawkins nodded, "yes, I'll stay on."

Harold smiled, "good, good. When James recovers from the trip, I expect he'll move back to his apartment in London… you'll be alright with looking after him there alone?" Hawkins nodded. Harold smiled, and clapped his shoulder, "you're hired, my good man." Hawkins gritted his teeth, and hoped to all eternity that James recovered what strength he had quickly.

James stirred, as Hawkins re-entered the room, and opened his eyes, looking sleepily at Hawkins. "I went to tell your mom you were alright and sleeping." James nodded, turning onto his side and drawing his feet up a bit, to make room for Hawkins to sit on the foot of the bed, "I think I'll stay a few days, then go back to London…"

"Thank god." James chuckled, and reached down, wrapping his arm around his shins to draw his legs further up on the bed. He looked at Hawkins, brown eyes sleepy and worried, "you're sure you're alright with staying on? I'm so pathetic… it's not the kind of job anyone would want…"

"First, you're not pathetic, you're sick. Second, you're sick, and therefore I get to play doctor. Third, you're a good person and worth helping to be around. Need more?"

James smiled, grateful. Hawkins rubbed his hand over James's foot, "that feel normal? Are they numb?" James shook his head, "there's no numbness, or anything. They're just so weak…" Hawkins nodded.

"Don't worry about it. Just hope your apartment doesn't have stairs…" James flushed, "um, it does." Hawkins shrugged, "then you'll get exercise." James smiled a bit, "I never really pegged you as an optimist." Hawkins snorted, "I'm not. I just want to get out of here." James laughed, "it's that bad? We've yet to be here a day."

"I'm not good at not offending people." James smiled, "you'll be fine."

"As long as I don't have to talk much more, yeah…" James laughed, quietly, wondering why Hawkins did not mind looking after him, if he so disliked people that simply conversing with James's parents and brother put him so clearly on edge. "Go back to sleep. Rest up so you can deal with your family" James nodded, "there's a connecting room… would that suit you to sleep in?" Hawkins nodded, "sure." James smiled, "good."

Someone in livery showed up to inform them that dinner was being served in fifteen minutes. James woke, and said they would come. He held on to Hawkins's arm, as they slowly worked their way down the steps. Mathews happened to pass the staircase, and came up, taking James's other arm. By the time they reached the foot of the stairs, James was completely out of breath, and needed to sit.

Mathew went to tell them to hold dinner for a bit. James sat, his hand over his chest, right hand still resting on Hawkins's arm, as the older man sat on the step next to him.

Eventually James recovered enough to walk again, and Hawkins helped him stand, walking close next to him as he shuffled towards the dining room, his attention focused so single-mindedly on moving his feet in the correct pattern that he nearly ran into a vase the size of a small man.

Finally, they made it to the dining room, and Hawkins sat in the chair Diane, James's mother, directed him to, next to James's chair. He stayed silent unless someone spoke to him, and by the time James started coughing, he was thoroughly weary of the sort of conversation James's family participated in.

He pulled back James's chair and gripped the younger man's shoulder, both to prevent him from going face-first into the pudding as he hunched over, struggling for breath. By the time the coughing fit was over, James looked like he was about to keel over in a dead faint. Hawkins ended up carrying James into the next room, where there was a couch, and sitting by, alone with Mathew and James, until the man recovered.

It took a long while, and he still seemed quite faint, even after his breathing had steadied. Mathew looked at Hawkins, who shook his head. It wasn't anything unusual. James slept for a while.

Eventually, he woke, and Hawkins and Mathew helped him to the room his parents had moved to. He ended up sitting on a couch next to Hawkins, and trying to stay awake.

James's apartment was in a lower building than the ones that surrounded it, with a spiraling staircase up to the second and third floors. There wasn't a lift, and James lived on the second floor.

His neighbor, George Hamilton, was quite a pleasant fellow, more than Hawkins would have expected. He was perfectly willing to come down and assist in getting the unsteady young man up the steps, and seemed to enjoy the company.

George was a widower in his mid thirties, and fairly down-to-earth. He would come and join James in the apartment, when James was too ill to go out.

James quite liked George, and George him, but they rarely met up outside of the building, for drinks or the like.

That station was reserved for a few of the men at James's favorite club, most often Andy Cullen, a man a hands breath shorter than Hawkins and James's same age, though much brasher, energetic, and spontaneous. There was also Steven Watkins, and Martin Harris, two good-natured but sometimes idiotic young men.

Andy tended to get both himself and James into a great deal of trouble, but James seemed happy enough to have the adventure, so Hawkins rarely interfered.

Hawkins wasn't used to being more mature than the people he was with, but when James was with Andy, most of his good judgment seemed to go completely out the window….sometimes rather literally.

Andy had once managed to convince a rather intoxicated James into hanging from the balcony of the club by a horse's cart harness, and throwing a melon onto the sidewalk below, just to see what would happen.

Hawkins had interfered that one time, when the rope started to fray, and hauled the harness, James included, back up onto the balcony with the help of a chastened Andy and the bartender.

James had been frightened of balconies for weeks afterwards.

James's walking was slowly improving, and his coughing fits lessened, and then went away almost entirely.

He was still dizzy and faint sometimes, but he managed alright at the club without Hawkins constantly at his side, though often one or another of his friends would be there to keep him steady.

He would be exhausted by the time they got home to the apartment, and that was when Hawkins would be needed again, wedging his shoulder under James's, and helping him up the staircase, one shallow step at a time.

Hawkins looked up from his reading, as shuffling footsteps that were even more unsteady than usual met his ears, along with a pair of unsteady but more usual ones.

Andy Cullen was supporting James as they stumbled their way over, quite obviously intoxicated beyond the normal for the club.

Hawkins stood, and was just in time to catch James as Andy tripped… though he made no effort to keep Cullen from falling. James hung onto Hawkins, smiling. "Hi Greg," he said, "I think someone spiked the punch." Hawkins chuckled, "it would appear so." James smiled, as Hawkins pulled the younger man's arm over his shoulders, rather ignoring Cullen, who was groaning, but not particularly injured by his fall.

James bade goodbye to the people in the club, as Hawkins helped him out to the street, and flagged down a cab. The younger man's walking was even worse than usual, and he had a terrific amount of trouble getting into the cab.

When he was finally seated, he leaned against Hawkins's side, his hand wrapped around the older man's arm. "Sorry," he murmured, "I didn't intend to get myself drunk."

"I didn't think you did," said Hawkins, sounding amused, rather than annoyed. James smiled, at Hawkins's pleasant tone, and rested his head atop Hawkins's shoulder, "can I sleep here?" Hawkins laughed, "if you want." James smiled again, and closed his eyes.

He indeed slept on Hawkins's shoulder the whole way back to the apartment, but was quite too intoxicated to even attempt the steps. Which was how he ended up slumbering on a step, his head resting back against Hawkins's chest, as the older man sat a step above him. Eventually, George happened home, and helped Hawkins carry the by now unconscious man up the two narrow spirals of steps.

Hawkins was able to pick James up over his shoulder after they were out of the confined space of the stairwell, and thanked George for his help, as the other man opened the apartment door for him.

Hawkins set James on the couch, and went to brew some strong tea. James stirred on the couch, as Hawkins held the mug in front of him. "I don't feel like sobering up," he complained, practically hanging on Hawkins's arm, "I want to go to bed." Hawkins sighed, and put down the mug, "alright, alright. But you'll have quite the hangover in the morning."

"I know," said James, smiling, "but right now the room's spinning more than usual, and I don't like it." Hawkins shrugged, but half dragged the younger man to the bedroom, and set him up in his pajamas as usual. James wouldn't let go of Hawkins's arm, and the older man ended up sitting on the other half of the bed, as James drifted off to sleep.

"Hawkins… come here," moaned James, from the bedroom. Hawkins stood, and walked into the bedroom, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed and an amused smile on his face, "yes, sir?" James moaned, "oh, don't call me sir. It's not even funny."

"Well, you called…"

"Because the room's spinning so fast I think I'm about to fall out of it… and my head feels like it is perpetually exploding."

James heard a chuckle, and raised his head out of the pillows to glare with bloodshot eyes at Greg, "you're enjoying this, aren't you?" Greg laughed, "well, it does break the monotony, if nothing else." James groaned, but his mouth did twitch a bit. "You are sadistic, that's what you are. No wonder you took a job purely on the fact the employer was ill." Greg chuckled, walking in and sitting on the edge of the bed, "well I certainly am amused, I'll give you that." James smiled a bit, though he still looked absolutely miserable. "I'll make some tea," said Greg. "Thanks," said James, slowly starting to ease himself out from under the covers.

By the time Hawkins came back in with the tea, James had his legs hanging over the edge of the bed, and his hand up, massaging his aching head. "I put some brandy in it, should help with the headache." James gave him a grateful look, and took the mug.

After he drank it, he set it on the table and looked at Hawkins. "Thank you," he said, quietly. Hawkins rolled his eyes, "it was just tea and brandy." James shook his head, "I mean… for everything."

"What, are you firing me or something?" James shook his head, "no… I just… thank you. It's not your nature to be a nursemaid."

"Not a nursemaid. A friend." James looked at him fondly, "indeed."

"Okay, well…" said Greg, awkwardly. James smiled, and reached for Greg's arm. Hawkins helped him up, and walked with him out to the living room, dizzy as he was from the hangover.

It was later that week, when the streets were coated with snow, that James had a particularly bad day and declined to go out. James was sitting on the window seat, his knees drawn up and his arms around his shins, as he watched the snow fall, when Hawkins came over.

He looked up, smiling wanly, as a hand rested on his shoulder.

"I'm not feeling down," he said, looking at the older man, "just a little disappointed. Bonnie Evans was supposed to drop by the club… about the only woman I can stand conversing with."

Greg snorted, "you have absolutely no interest in women."

"I used to be quite good at courting," said James, looking at Greg, "but I never really found anyone I wanted to bother about. My mother, though, wants me to find someone to marry and have a lot of children by."

Hawkins smirked a bit, "a task which I'm sure you'll enjoy filling." James chuckled. "I suppose so. I guess I could give her a ring…" Greg snorted, "that would be a bit premature…" James rolled his eyes, "I meant call her, and you know it."

Hawkins smirked, pulling up a chair to sit next to the window seat, "someone's snippy today." James sighed, rubbing the back of his neck, "it's just… I feel so pathetic…"

Hawkins shook his head, "you're recovering. You just need to get the strength back in your legs and you'll be fit as ever, except for the dizzy spells. Well, I think… I didn't know you before you fell ill, so I can't know for sure."

James smiled, "you're right." He reached for the telephone, and dialed. "Ah, yes… Bonnie, I was… eh?" Hawkins raised an eyebrow. James frowned, as he listened, then turned pale. "I… no, I hadn't… I… thank you."

He hung up, looking dazed and upset, then looked at Greg. "They, uh… just got news at the club. A body was found in the Thames." Hawkins blinked, "alright… well, that's too bad, but why are you so…" Hawkins stopped, "David?"

James nodded, silently. Hawkins reached across, awkwardly gripping the younger man's hand, as it was the only action that really presented itself to him. James gripped back, "one of the senior detectives of Scotland Yard came to the club to ask after me… he should be here any minute."

Hawkins decided it would probably be a bad time to complain about having to act all formal. The bell rang, and Hawkins went to get it. Two police officers stepped in, one in a long brown trench coat, the other in a uniform, "James Williams?"

Hawkins gestured to the window seat, where James had looked over at the two men, expression sad. "I got a call from the club," he said, quietly. Trenchcoat nodded, "I'm afraid the body we found was your brother, sir."

James nodded, and looked away out the window. "I also must inform you that he was murdered." James's head snapped around, "what? How? I thought he had signs of drinking about him, not…"

"He was poisoned, Mr. Williams," said Uniform. James sighed, and rested his head against the window. "Detective Lester here is leading the investigation," said uniform, indicating Trenchcoat. James nodded, eyes closed.

Hawkins stood awkwardly by the two officers, as they continued to speak, "we require you to come down to the station, Mr. Williams." James nodded again, raising his head and opening his eyes. Hawkins walked over to him, and gripped his arm, as he eased himself off the window seat.

"Just you, sir." James shook his head, "I can't walk well. It's alright, anything I could be privy to, Hawkins can as well."

"Right, then," said Lester, "we've a cab waiting." James nodded, as the two left. Then he gripped Hawkins's arm, and leaned against the older man, upset. "Greg… I can't do this. I just… I can't…"

"Too bad, since it's pretty clear you have to."

"You don't understand… I… when I was younger, I worshiped the ground David walked on. I loved him dearly, and when he left… I just recently stopped dreaming about it, Greg. And now he's dead—murdered! I can't handle this… I just can't."

Greg gripped his elbow, "calm down. You're going to give yourself a fit." James shook his head, "I don't… I can't… Greg…" He raised his hand to his forehead, dizzy, faint, and overwhelmed. "You need to lie down." He nodded, and Greg led him to the couch.

He lay on it, hand over his eyes, breathing heavily. A knock on the door, which Hawkins answered. It turned out to be Lester, "are you…" he saw James, pale, lying on the couch, and looked at Hawkins, "we'll meet you both at the station, then?" Hawkins nodded, and closed the door as Lester left. ?


End file.
